


And His Eyes Pricked and Burned

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Loneliness, M/M, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is a short fix on Sherlock and John 40 years after they split up.<br/>It's pretty depressing but I hope you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And His Eyes Pricked and Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy it! Leave comments etc and it is my first EVER fic so yeah. Don't be too mean ;)

"Quickly John, he's getting away!" yelled Sherlock as he jumped onto yet another roof, his coat billowing out behind him.  
John's leg felt as if I was about to fall off he was in so much pain, but for Sherlock he knew he would have to carry on. Suddenly, the door to 221b loomed up before him, and not stopping to question why it was on a rooftop in the middle of London, he barged into it, feeling it splinter and crack about his shoulders. He ran upstairs, and fell to the floor as he saw Sherlock lying, unconscious on the ground, and seeing a British Army Browning L9A1 on the floor brought it up to his head and pulled the trigger.

~~~Tuesday 14th March, 2068~~~

John sat straight up in his bed, cracking his back as he did so, gasping for breath, moaning.  
"It's alright John, everything is fine, your back in your bed in your care home, remember?" whispered Allison, the nurse charged with looking after him. She lay him back down and attached a supply of oxygen to his mouth, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  
"It...it was the same dream I always have. Him. Dead. On the floor. And I'm completely helpless." rasped John, thinking to himself how helpless he now was anyway. Constantly bedridden with one problem or another, only being allowed out of his room for a walk around the park, depending on Allison for everything. He loathed it.  
"Okay, let's calm down. I thought you said that Sherlock guy had died 5 years ago anyway?" said Allison, dragging her chair closer to his bedside.  
The words pierced him like daggers. No-one truly knew of the attachment John had felt for Sherlock. The way his face would concentrate on his microscope, the giddy glee he would get from finding a new case, his black curls bouncing everywhere... John shook his head. There was no point in thinking like that. He was gone.  
"Yeah, yeah that's right. It was announced in one tiny column of the national news. I can't imagine how annoyed he must have been to not have the millions mourning for him." John said smiling weakly.  
Allison nodded and slowly helped John out of bed, got him changed and lead him out of his room down into the reception. A few members of the care home were sitting together chatting, but on seeing him their smiles disappeared. Lets just say that John hadn't made a good first impression on them, and had since not even endeavoured to befriend them. He had no-one except Allison now. She handed him his stick, and he curled his gnarled hand around the wood, and stepped outside.

~~~Tuesday, 21st March~~~

John had no conception of the time anymore. He didn't need to. The weeks, months, years flew by in a grey, depressing blur. He found himself reminiscing for hours on end, and he found himself wishing he could turn the clocks back and return to how it was before... before Sherlock turned him out.

~*~40 years earlier...~*~

It was a balmy Sunday morning, and John was carrying a heavy bag of shopping back up to 221b. Upon entering, he noticed that the door knocker had been straightened. Mycroft. He went up the stairs and heard a soft buzz of voices in the kitchen, but could not make out what they were saying, so took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door. He saw Sherlock and Mycroft whispering with their heads together for a second before Mycroft turned away, studying his fingers, and Sherlock looked down his microscope.  
"What is this, primary school?" John laughed, staring disbelievingly at the two and their pathetic attempts to throw him off their tail.  
"I couldn't possibly know what you're referring to John" said Mycroft coldly, nodding at Sherlock before exiting.  
John stared at Sherlock, who made a desperate attempt to appear busy.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Why hello John! Would you like a cup of tea, some biscuits, my company?" he reeled off quickly, still staring down his microscope.  
"No. I want to know what's going on."  
"Oh nothing, nothing. Mycroft simply stopped by for a chat. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do, so please leave me alone." He spoke this pleasantly enough, but the last three words were hard.  
John stared, dumped the shopping on the table, and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Over the next two hours he paced his bedroom. Something was not right. Certainly it was never right when Mycroft was involved. He pondered for a while before Sherlock opened his door.  
"John?"  
"What."  
"You need to leave. Now"  
"Wait what?"  
"Do I have to repeat myself?" he said sighing, turning his head away, never meeting his eyes.  
"You mean.. leave Baker Street? Forever?" he stuttered, his eyes starting to prick and burn. Jesus, what the hell was going on?  
"Yes, you've got it, congratulations. I expect you to have removed all your belongings by the end of this week" said Sherlock, monotonously. He then left the room without another word, as John wiped the drops from his eyes.

~*~Present Day~*~

John's eyes pricked and burned just thinking about the injustice of it all. He had removed his things by the end of the week, and never saw Sherlock again. Grief and guilt mixed together swamped his body whenever he thought of his friend's death. An overdose. That's what killed the mighty Sherlock Holmes. But maybe if he had been there he could have stopped it.  
"John?" Allison's voice interrupted his thoughts.  
"Y-yes?" John choked, wiping some drops from his eyes.  
"You have a visitor! Isn't that exciting!"  
"Me? Are you sure it's me who has a visitor?"  
"Yes, he said, 'I'm looking for a John Watson. And by the way that lipstick really isn't working for you, your boyfriend hates it.'" Allison frowned a little whilst reciting the last part, as John burst into laughter. It reminded him of Sherlock so much. The tears threatened to fall again, but he held them back.  
"Lets go then"  
Allison helped him off the bench and led him into reception.  
"There he is" whispered Allison, pointing to a grey haired, tall man, stooping over a little, inspecting a piece of art work. "Now you go crazy okay?" she said happily, pushing John forwards a little bit.  
Slowly John hobbled over to the man, and tapped him on the back.  
"Finally, where is he? Do I need to go up to his room? This artwork is a fake by the way, Turner never used these brushstrokes." he said quickly, not turning around.  
"Excuse me? I am John Watson, who are you and what do you want?"  
The man turned around. Darkness consumed John's vision.

~*~A few hours later~*~

Wearily, John rubbed his eyes. What time was it? Why was Allison not asking him how his sleep was? Wait, where even was he? He opened his eyes to...definitely not the care home.  
He could barely see, because the blinds had been drawn over all the windows. Dust coated everything, and a faint light was coming from a closed door. Papers where strewn everywhere, and was that... was that bullet holes in the wall? John started to breathe heavily. Had he been kidnapped? Was he going to be killed? He made an attempt to sit up, but his back would not cooperate. If only he had his stick he could get out this blasted building.  
"Stick?" said a man behind him.  
John yelled.  
"John really this is ridiculous. I'm sure even your depressingly stupid mind can remember me."  
John snatched his stick from the man and heaved himself up.  
"I don't need your help" he said, stepping closer to the man, looking up into.. into his face...  
"Sh-Sherlock?" he whispered. Then it all came back to him. Meeting the visitor in the reception, seeing his face... the face of his old friend. His hair was grey but still had the vivacious curl to it. His skin was wrinkled and his cheekbones were sagged, but behind the eyes was the same fervour and ingenuity he had been used to seeing all those years ago.  
"Yes. Hello John." whispered Sherlock. "I never meant for you to see me like this... I intended to see you and apologise as soon as you left Baker Street but... my work... got in the way. I never planned to live this long. Do you know what it is like feeling your body decay around you whilst your mind remains bright and eager? Have you ever felt frustration at yourself so strongly that you hate every inch of you being? I had always planned to kill myself as soon as any sign of decay entered my anatomy, but... I had to see you again and apologise. It just took me a long time to get round to it."  
"Why did you do it. Why did you turn me out with nowhere to go, no friends, no money."  
"The day you came home with the shopping, Mycroft was reminding me of the danger sentimentality can lead to. He managed to convince me of my impartiality towards you, and how you would only get in the way of my work. I was sure that letting you go would be for the best... I think I was wrong for the first time in my life."  
John snorted. "Not the first time; remember the Case of the Man with One Leg? You got that completely wrong the first time."  
"Oh please one miscalculation lead to the next and.. never mind that who cares now. Aren't you mad at me?"  
"I'm furious. But you're my best friend Sherlock. I'm just glad you're not actually...dead. Why did you fake your death for the second time?"  
"It was just easier. So many people clamouring to see me, so much noise. That's why I retreated here. It's the country house my family used to own. Since I'm the last Holmes left now... I... I thought I should use it."  
"Mycroft-"  
"Yes. He died 10 years ago. Didn't want a fuss. No-one except some members of the Government and me knew."  
"I'm sorry-"  
"Don't be."  
Silence.  
"So...what to do now?" said John, taking a look around the dilapidated house.  
"Well you were out cold for a couple of hours after you fainted, so I should probably be getting you back to Allison now."  
"Oh..right. Yeah. Let's go."  
Sherlock and John helped each other out of the house and into faded, dirty car, which puffed and chugged its way back to the home.  
"Are you going to be okay? I mean, alone in that big house."  
"John honestly. Just because I'm an old man it doesn't mean I'm completely decrepit.  
"Alright alright. See you tomorrow then?"  
"See you tomorrow."

That first meeting sparked off the start of the relationship again. Every day without fail Sherlock would turn up, if a little late sometimes ("John I've just had a breakthrough in some medicine I was researching!"), and they would take a walk around the park together (John found this a good excuse to link arms with Sherlock). They reminisced like there was no tomorrow, laughing at all the cases and all the people they knew. A lot of the time John's eyes would prick and burn but on seeing Sherlock's concerned face he held it in. Sometimes Sherlock would even take John into the town, and they would walk the streets, in silence, thinking about how their lives used to be, John always wiping the drops from his eyes.

~*~1 year later~*~

John was worried. Sherlock was three hours late for their appointment (he refrained from calling it a 'date'). Although he had been known to be late before, at least he had given notice. This time there was no notice. No nothing. Allison was doing all she could to get in touch with him, but to no avail. He wasn't picking up his phone. John was all for walking the 20 miles to his house, but she absolutely forbade it. Something like 'it wasn't good for his health', when in fact John hadn't felt so good in 40 years.

~*~an hour later~*~

There was complete silence in the car, except for the soft sounds of the bouncy pop song which Allison was humming along to. She had offered to drive John to Sherlock's house, and they bumped along the lumpy rode until the huge, dark country house came into sight.  
"Wow." Allison gaped at the mansion. "Who did you say this guy was again?"  
"My best friend."

John hobbled as fast as he could. He opened the door yelling Sherlock's name. He climbed countless flights of stairs searching in every room, when finally, at the top of the house he found an attic bedroom.  
"SHERLOCK?" he shouted as loud as he could, barging through the door just as he did in his nightmares. He felt the door crack and splinter, and he felt his head spin as he saw Sherlock lying on the ground.  
"Sherlock oh my god no" he whispered, crouching down by the body. His eyes began to burn and prick.  
"J-John?"  
John breathed out, hugging him.  
"Sherlock thank god, what's happened, what can I do for you, is there-"  
"Oh John please stop being so patronising. I believe this is called 'being old'" coughed Sherlock, forcing himself to smile weakly.  
"Shut it." whispered John as he checked his friends pulse. It was weak. Too weak.  
"I'm dying, John."  
He forced back the tears.  
"No, you're not. We need to get you to a hospital, Allison has got a car-"  
"You know this was never how I planned to die. It was always going to be very professional, with a sterilised needle or something of the kind," he coughed again, "but this...this is perfect. I've lived long enough, John, and now I have with me the man I love the most."  
John's heart skipped a beat. What he had struggled with for so long was bubbling near the surface.  
Sherlock emitted a sound of pain, and John found a blanket and draped it over him.  
"Do you love me, John?" whispered Sherlock, his eyes slowly closing.  
John's voice had suddenly gone, and he did nothing but stare at him. This couldn't be happening. The great Sherlock Holmes, dying of old age like a meek child; it was too surreal.  
Sherlock held out his hand too John. He took it, and pressed it to his lips. It was cold and clammy.  
"Sherlock please. Please for me. You can't go. You've turned my life around in this last year. I can't live without you. Please. No, no no," he screamed as Sherlock's hand went limp in his, and he exhaled deeply, his face calm and happy for one of the first times in his life.  
"Yes, I love you, I love you" said John, rocking back and forth, shaking his shoulders.  
And the tears that he had been holding back for so long burst forth into a colossal ocean.  
After all, what is the ocean but a multitude of drops?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I hope it was alright for you to read, and I hope it lived up to your expectations.  
> Sorry it was so depressing.  
> I'm going to write a University Johnlock fic in chapters next!


End file.
